


Welcome Home

by youreyestheyglow



Series: Firsts [5]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, More Fluff, more clothes, more food, more smut, trans!jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:25:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Marco visit Marco's mom. They return to Jean's house for smut and kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it took so long, I dropped off the face of the earth for even longer than normal.  
> If anyone stuck around for this: thank you, I love you, and you are the backbone of our society

“How formal should I be?”

“You shouldn’t be formal at all. I’m wearing jeans. Probably a t-shirt.”

“You own t-shirts?”

“One, I think.”

“I don’t own any.”

“You’ve gotta own jeans, at least.”

“Sure, but what the hell am I supposed to wear them with?”

“What do you usually wear them with?”

“A dress shirt!”

“What do you wear on your days off?”

“Sweatpants! Pajamas! Underwear! Nothing, if the cleaning lady isn’t coming in that day!”

You grin at that. “Clearly, I’ll have to stop by on one of your days off.”

“I don’t answer the door on those days.”

“I’ll climb in through the window.”

“You’ll set off fifteen alarms on your way in. I’ll turn them off for you. But this is beside the point. What am I supposed to wear?”

“We’re going to my mom’s house, not a meeting with the Queen of England. She’s probably going to rope you into helping her cook. There will be tomato sauce. Don’t wear anything you can’t wash.”

“That limits me to my underwear.”

“I’ll take it.”

“ _Marco_!”

“Just go shopping, you’ve got time!”

“I haven’t been in a department store in _three years_.”

“Spoiled.”

“If I’m spoiled, what are you?”

“Aware of my wealth.”

You hear a huff on the other end. Drawers slam close to the phone.

“Jean, she doesn’t care what you look like. I promise.”

Incomprehensible grumbling makes its way to your ears.

“You looked fine when you came over last week, just wear something like that.”

“You said you’re wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I’ll look overdressed.”

“You’ll look fine. Why are you so worried? It’s not like you’re meeting my dad, just my mom.”

“Why _aren’t_ I meeting your dad?”

“They got divorced a little while back, and I haven’t spoken to him since. There’s a distinct possibility that he changed his phone number.”

“See? I’m not meeting your dad because he doesn’t matter. Your mom, on the other hand, _does_ matter, which is why I’m meeting her. Therefore, I have to make a good impression.”

“Good point. Let’s make a deal. You wear something you can cook in, and I’ll talk so much my mom won’t even notice your clothes. Deal?”

Plenty of grumbling later, Jean agrees. You hang up feeling like you’ve won a battle.

A battle, but not the war. If Jean is this flustered about what he’s going to wear tomorrow, he’ll probably be worse when he actually meets your mom.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of this.

It’s not like your mom is gonna kill him. She could bully a lesser person into submission any day, but Jean’s dealt with both immensely wealthy people and immensely dangerous people, and not once has anyone managed to say they bullied Jean Kirschtein into accepting their terms. The most she could do to him is whack him over the head with her skillet, but you’ve been informed that that’s only to be done when someone’s hurting you, and you can’t see Jean attacking your mother. So he’ll be fine. What’s he so worried about? If you were meeting his parents, it wouldn’t be that big a deal.

You get up and wander around your house. It’s circular, which makes things easier. You can see your garden from all sides.

Then again, maybe meeting his parents _would_ be a big deal.

Jean would want his parents to like you, presumably. Would probably do his best to show you off. Hopefully, you’d make that easy for him, but what if you didn’t? What if you showed up in the wrong clothes? What if they stared at your scars? What if they didn’t approve of you, and told Jean they didn’t like you? Would you force Jean to choose between you and his parents?

You sit back down. You’ve seen the man four times in person, four, that’s it. Only four times. You have some clients you’ve seen more often than that. He’s not really that important.

Except he is, and you know it, and you fail to understand why you’re trying to lie about it.

Suddenly, you understand why people smoke.

You go wrap up your present instead.

* * *

 

The next day dawns bright and early, so you roll over and ignore it.

 

* * *

 

You wake up to three missed phone calls and two texts.

One of the phone calls is from a client. Everything else is from Jean.

For the first time in your life, you put your personal life before your professional life, and call Jean back.

“Marco?”

“You called?”

“You just noticed?”

“Yes.” You curl up, phone pressed between your head and the pillow. If you close your eyes, it’s a little like he’s in bed with you.

You’re getting sappy in your old age.

“I’m having problems.”

“I assumed so.”

“There’s a stain on my favorite vest.”

“Wear your second favorite.”

“I don’t have a second favorite. I have my favorite and I have others.”

“How’d you stain it?”

“I don’t know, but it looks purple, so possibly blueberries.”

“Just squeeze more blueberries out on it, it’ll look cool.”

“Not helpful.”

“Don’t wear a vest.”

“I look good in vests.”

“I’m not arguing with that, I’m just telling you not to wear a vest.”

“You think I look good in vests?”

“Are there people on this planet who don’t?”

“Probably.”

“They’re missing out. How did you only just notice that there’s a stain?”

“I wore it yesterday.”

“Where’d you wear it?”

“Blueberry picking with several small children.”

“The stain is definitely blueberries. Why were you blueberry picking with small children?”

“An old friend made me the godfather of all four of his kids. They like the shiny vest, so I wear it for them.”

“You like kids?”

“Mm. Yeah. I want one. Not right now. Later. I’d like another kid, a little later than that. But that’s not the point. The point is, I’m absolutely terrified and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Go full pastel.”

“What?”

“Don’t bother toning it down. Just pastel everywhere. My mom’ll love it. She always said my clothing was boring.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Full pastel it is. Like when I met you.”

“Good.”

“See you in a few hours.”

“Yeah.”

You hang up. If your mom doesn’t like Jean, you’ll make her like him.

Your client comes next. She picks up on the first ring and tells you that the CEO of a clothing store has broken her heart, and that you need to publish something about him. She’s willing to pay extensive amounts of money. You happen to know for a fact that Jean’s been sitting on a full exposé of the man for three months – a full story, blackmail and child labor and fraud, complete with sources – and you know Erwin would publish it. You know exactly who to contact to make sure police arrive at the man’s door at the moment he opens up his morning newspaper, which you know he reads regularly because you’re in contact with at least three servants in every upperclass home in the country.

You turn her down.

 

* * *

 

Jean arrives in his red Camaro and a purple-and-green ensemble that would fit right in with any Barney-themed party. You refrain from pointing this out. His face is nearly as green as his shoes.

“I’m yours to direct” is all he says, though, so you stick your package in the backseat and tell him to get to the turnpike and take exit 7.

“A woman called me this morning. Said you turned her down. Tried to talk to me directly.”

“Called herself Leia?”

He snorts. “Yeah. I wonder if she actually saw the movies. Leia would never betray a friend.”

“She’d beat them up herself. But yes, I turned her down. Did you take her up on it?”

“No. Figured there was a good reason why you turned her down, so I didn’t take her up on it.”

“Mostly, I didn’t like that she was doing it over a broken heart.”

“Ah. She didn’t tell me _that_. Do you always turn down ex-lovers?”

“Unless they were abused, yes.”

“Good.”

“Really?”

“There’ve gotta be plenty of good reasons to ruin someone’s life other than getting angry that they don’t love you anymore.”

“Seconded.”

“Care if I turn on the radio?”

“Not at all.”

Jean flicks through radio stations, hardly giving them a chance before turning the dial with a grimace.

“Looking for some Hannah Montana?”

“If I ever turn _that_ on, I want you to hit me with a sledgehammer.”

“No partying in the USA for you, huh.”

“Not cool, Marco, not cool.”

He stops at “Sweet Caroline.”

“Good choice.”

“Thanks.”

When you reach your mom’s house, “Party in the USA” is at full volume, and Jean knows _every word_. Lord, you never thought you’d apply this word to him, but he’s adorable. Maybe he’ll spend the night with you. Or maybe you’ll spend the night with him.

Now _that’s_ a scary thought. His house isn’t set up the way yours is, to be easily escaped in case of a fire.

And yet, you’re still considering it.

Jean turns the car off with a good bit of trepidation, staring at the little one-floor ivy-covered house like it’s going to bite him.

You reach into the backseat. “Don’t worry, this’ll distract her for a bit.”

“What is it?”

You smile at him and get out of the car.

He sighs and meets you halfway to the door. “Want me to carry it?”

“I’ve got it.”

He decides against arguing with you. Maybe nerves are getting the better of him.

You open the door without knocking. “Mama?”

“In here!”

You slip off your shoes. Jean does the same. He follows you into the kitchen.

Somehow, your mother never looks like she’s been working in a hot kitchen all day. You’re absolutely certain that she had Mina over for lunch, and you’re equally sure that she cooked, but every silver hair is tucked perfectly into place and she looks like she doesn’t know the meaning of sweat.

You lean down to kiss her cheek. “Mama, this is Jean. Jean, this is my mom, Ms. Parillo.”

“Call me Gisella,” she says, stretching up to give Jean a kiss. “It’s good to finally get to meet you. Marco tells me you can cook?”

You set the present on a chair while Jean admits that he can cook, a little, and your mother reassures him that she’ll do most of it, but it would be nice to have a little help.

“Have you made pasta before?”

“Of course, that’s a pretty basic –”

“Wonderful, I was thinking we could make raviolis from scratch? They’re Marco’s _favorite_.”

Jean throws you a glance that could only be interpreted as _mildly homicidal_. You attempt to communicate the fact that _this wasn’t your fault._ Yes, okay, they’re your favorite, but you don’t ask for them unless you’re paying the person making them. It’s your mom’s fault, not yours.

“I’ve only hand-made pasta once, but even if I’d made it a thousand times, I’d still be happy to learn from a master like yourself.”

Even _you_ never managed to melt your mother’s heart like that.

Your mother pulls out an apron and hands it to him. “Marco, help him tie it, it’s the old one – the one where the straps are too short, remember when Jacob ripped them? Jacob is my grandson,” she informs Jean. “This apron has been in the family for decades, and the cloth is very worn, and a few years ago Jacob was trying to pull it off its hook – I don’t know _why_ , I think it’s just because it was hanging there – and he tugged on the strings and ripped them. We were lucky he didn’t pull the entire thing apart.”

“Oh, I don’t want –”

“Don’t worry about getting flour on it, it’s been through worse and it’ll go through worse again. Flour can be beaten out of it, it’s not a problem.”

You tie the strings tight around his waist – lord knows your mother has given you enough lectures on loose cloth and high flame – and try to dispel his worries: “it’s been through my attempts at cooking, so nothing you can do to it can really hurt it.”

“How bad a chef _are_ you?”

“Very bad.”

“He’s awful. He’d ruin a salad.”

“I’ve ruined cereal.”

“He did, he poured orange juice in instead of milk.”

“ _What_?”

“It was an accident, I wasn’t paying attention.” You finish tying the strings and step back, but not before Jean whips his head around so he can laugh in your face. He’s close, so close you can smell his shampoo, and you don’t know why you didn’t notice it earlier – but your mom’s already regained his attention, talking about kneading dough properly.

You don’t think you imagined the heat in his eyes, though, in that split second when he met your gaze.

You’ll just set the table. No need to look at Jean while you’re putting out plates.

That doesn’t take very long, though.

Napkins. Utensils. Drinks. Rearrange the utensils. Rearrange them again.

Mom passes you a bowl. “Would you wash this, sweetheart?”

“Yes, mama.” _Thank you, mama_.

You obediently wash every dish they pass you.

“So you’re in Marco’s line of work?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t ask about that, then. It makes me nervous. I like your clothing style. It reminds me of that one show – what was that show you used to watch, Marco? With the kids? And that awful song about loving each other?”

“Barney?”

“That’s it. The horrible dinosaur. I like you much better, Jean. You bring class to that color scheme.”

“Thank you, that was precisely my goal.”

“I don’t blame you for being sarcastic. That was rude of me. I do think you’re a very good-looking man, though. Much better than Barney.”

“Thank you.”

“Marco, change the topic, I’ve said something rude again. Tell me about your first date.”

You grin. How very like her, to request a change of subject from you and provide it herself.

“We went to Grounds for Sculpture,” Jean says, energetically flattening the dough with a rolling pin. “It’s most well-known for the sculptures there that are based on paintings – _Girl with a Pearl Earring_ , for instance.”

She claps her hands, almost involuntarily. “My favorite! She is so beautiful!”

“She?”

“She was a person too, you know. A very beautiful person. She looks like she’s watching you. She looks kind. She looks enigmatic. I used to have a copy of her, you know. But many things happened, and I don’t have her anymore.”

Jean hands you the rolling pin, meeting your gaze for long enough to toss a meaningful glance at the package on the kitchen chair. You smile back innocently and take up the sponge again.

“It’s a beautiful painting, and even prettier as a sculpture.”

“You should take me down there to see it one day.”

“Me?”

“Both of you.”

“Ah.”

“I think it would be nice. Bring Sasha along, she and I can talk.”

At this rate, she’s going to end up calling Sasha herself. Time for you to intervene. “Mama, there’s this new show that I think you’d like – it’s called Bob’s Burgers and it’s _hilarious_.”

The raviolis make it into the oven without incident, you untie Jean’s apron without incident, your mom sits down without sitting on the gift, all is well.  

 “What’s this, sweetheart? A present? For me? You shouldn’t have. I love it already. Wait, what – _oh_.”

Your mother runs her hands over the gilded picture frame, runs her hands under her eyes to wipe away the tears, barely refrains from running her hands over the artfully cracked paint. “She’s beautiful, Marco.”

You rise to take it from her. “Do you want her where the other one was?”

“Yes, yes, the nail is still in the wall, I think.”

The nail is still in the wall, looking rather forlorn in the living room above the armchair.

“Jacob won’t get it this time, absolutely _not_ , if he even tries I will remove his hands.”

The three of you stand there for a moment, admiring _Girl with the Pearl Earring_ staring down at you. You disagree with your mother’s assessment of her. She doesn’t look enigmatic; she looks forlorn, strong as a nail, unwilling to go but ready to leave. This is her final goodbye, and she doesn’t understand why she has to say it, but she doesn’t mind that she does. Conflicted but decided.

“The raviolis!” Your mom shrieks. “No, no, don’t worry, I’ll get them –”

“What happened to the other copy?” Jean asks when your mom disappears into the kitchen.

“Jacob – my nephew – climbed up on the chair, nearly fell behind it, and caught himself by putting a hand through the painting. Mama asked if I could do something about it. I told her she should just get another copy, but she insisted that that one belonged in her living room and had to stay. I told her I’d see what I could do, so I brought it home with me, and stored it in the attic until I could get up to the city to see someone about it. I figured it would be safe there, out of the way, and then Annie burned my house down, and the painting went with it. Mama wouldn’t let me say a thing about it; whenever I brought it up, she told me it didn’t matter. I’ve had this one sitting in my house for a while now, waiting for me to visit.”

Jean nods, reaches out, takes my hand. The left hand, the scarred hand.

“Dinner’s ready, boys!” Mama calls from the kitchen.

Dinner is delicious, of course. What else could it be, when it was made by your mom and Jean?

Virginia Woolf wrote in _A Room of One’s Own_ that good food leads to good conversation. It’s always proved true in your experience, and this is no exception. Jean sparkles, happily discussing his friend Eren and Eren’s kids. Your mom eats it up, matching him story for story with tales of Jacob’s exploits and the things he’s broken. You hardly have to do anything, only hopping in with details your mother has forgotten. At one point, Jean steps out to use the bathroom, and your mom reaches over to squeeze your hand – “he’s wonderful, sweetheart, I approve” – and then Jean returns, and the conversation carries on like it never stopped. After dinner, you wash the dishes while your mom pulls out gelato and Jean makes coffee. It strikes you just how well he fits in here, how in two hours he’s gone from green-faced and terrified to chatting and making coffee. At one point, your mom hurries out to use the bathroom, and Jean grabs your arm – “Your mom is so great, what an adorable human being” – and then your mom returns, and the evening continues like it was never interrupted.

You only induce Jean to leave after repeated reminders that you have a long drive ahead of you, and only after reminding your mom that driving after dark is dangerous. She hugs and kisses both of you, walks you to the door, and waves at you until you’re out of sight, yelling “Text me when you get home safe!”

Jean pulls over when you turn the corner. For a moment, you worry – but no. Not with Jean. You don’t have to worry with him.

He leans over and kisses you. He misses your mouth at first, landing a little off to one side, but once you figure out what he’s going for, you correct his path easily enough.

He rests his forehead against yours for a minute, nose brushing yours. His thumb traces your cheekbone. “Do you wanna go to your house, or do you wanna come to mine? You don’t have to come to my place if you don’t want to.”

“No, let’s – we can go to your house.”

“All right.” He smiles through another kiss before straightening up and pulling back onto the road.

He doesn’t bother turning on the radio. You watch the scenery fly by, trees blurring into nothing, streetlamps passing like flashes of lightning, road signs passing before you even register their presence. The sky fades from deep purple to dark blue to nearly black. Every so often, you look over at Jean. He must catch the movement of your head out of the corner of his eye, because he meets your eye, every time, and gives you a smile as soft as the moonlight filtering through the tree leaves.

His house is dark, set back away from the main street, but a couple automatic lights flicker on as you pull into the driveway, illuminating a stony façade and the elegant expanse of a bay window.

You make the mistake of trying to leave the car and pull out your phone at the same time, and in the end, you just watch the phone hit the ground with a sigh. You bend down to grab it – Jean bends down to grab it – you contort yourself to avoid hitting him, he tries to move out of the way and grabs you to avoid falling, and at the end of it, you’re standing in his arms, laughing as he leads you in a sloppy waltz up the driveway, ending with a bow as he presses your phone into your hand.

“Text Gisella and tell her we got home fine, and text Sasha and tell her where you are.”

You text your mom first: _Got back safe, thank you for the delicious dinner._ It’s one of only three texts in that conversation, the other two being _Mama, you got a new phone?_ And _Yes, call me xoxo!!!_ You switch over to your conversation with Sasha. Something in your chest releases as you type out _I’m spending the night at Jean’s house, if I don’t text you in the morning come in with guns blazing._ It’s probably not necessary, but a couple precautions never hurt anybody.

Jean flicks on a couple lights until the living room is lit with the glow of the kitchen light, and a lumpy couch becomes a perfectly normal couch that happens to be covered in blankets and pillows.

You make space on it, sitting down with three throw pillows on one side and two blankets on the other. Jean pops out of some other room and topples into your lap, head on the pillows and legs propped up on the blankets.

“You’re just what this couch needed for maximum comfort, I think. I should’ve installed you here a while ago.”

You splay your hands out over his stomach. “And you’re better than any blanket, so I guess we’re even.”

He laughs. You can feel his stomach contracting under your fingers.

“Also, I have no clothing.”

“What?”

“I didn’t bring any clothes with me.”

“Sleep in your underwear.” He frowns. “Wait, why not?”

“I didn’t know I was staying over.”

He stares at you. “Me neither, now that you mention it, but I just – assumed you were.”

“Me too.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

“I didn’t say there was one.”

He pulls a pillow from behind his head and smooshes it against your face. “Well then, who did?”

You take it from him and place it carefully out of his reach. “You did.”

“I did _not_.” He tries to reach it with his foot.

“You asked me what the problem was. You invented the problem.” You kick it out of his range entirely.

“The problem is that I only have two pillows instead of one. Gimme back my pillow.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re sitting on me.”

 “ _Ungggggggggggg_.” He closes his eyes and ruffles his hair. “Fine.” He sits up.

It’s _not_ your fault for moaning. It’s _not_. He’s sitting on your dick. When he sits up, he presses against you, and it’s not your fault you reacted to that.

But suddenly, he’s giving you the same look he gave you the first time you met, and – well – _lord_.

Five minutes later, your eyepatch and shirt are god knows where, and Jean’s entire outfit needs to be cleaned and ironed.

“Tell me you’ve got –”

“In the bedroom, yeah, _yeah_ , _fuck_ –” you bite his neck and he trails off into wordless noise.

He drags himself to his feet and pulls you up too, shedding clothing even as he leads you to his bedroom, turning around to kiss you halfway down the hallway, tugging at your pants, tripping over his boxers, grinning at what must be the stupidest look you’ve ever had on your face in your entire life. He licks the hollow of your throat, kisses it, disappears out of your arms and returns with lube and a condom. You sit down on the unmade bed and pull him into your lap. He grins hungrily at you, but then you’ve got lube on your fingers and your thumb rubbing his clitoris and he’s not even looking at you anymore – he’s got his head thrown back, his entire body straining towards you. And then something snaps, and he’s sucking hickeys into your throat, whining at you to _put on a condom for fuck’s sake_.

It takes you three seconds to rip the package open. Another five to get the thing on. You know this because Jean counts. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three –”

He laughs at you when you glare at him.

And then he’s sliding onto your dick, and your eye rolls back in your head, and you’re not glaring at him anymore.

The two of you move slowly at first, partly thanks to the calming effect of eight seconds spent putting on a condom, partly because Jean’s in an awkward position and he can only do so much.

You don’t mind. It gives you time to run your hands over his skin, to watch him shudder when you graze your hands over his ribs, to hear him moan when you brush your thumbs over his nipples.

Jean kisses you, sloppily, lazily, because he wants to and he can. You kiss him, in the same way, for the same reasons. When he starts to flag, you wrap an arm around his waist and drag yourself backwards across the bed and flip over, giving his thighs a break and drawing a noise out of him that you didn’t know he could make, and dear _god_ if he was hoping to get you to speed up, that’s exactly what he should have done.

He’s squeezing you as tightly as he can, every bit of him wrapped around you, teeth in your neck, hair in your face, all of him, everywhere, meeting you thrust for thrust, moaning your name in your ear, digging his nails into your back until he’s whining, his face pressed against your shoulder so hard you’re gonna have a bruise in the morning, heels digging into your ass, shaking, shuddering, squeezing around you until you can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think anything but _Jean, Jean, **Jean**_ **–** and then you’re shaking with him, shuddering with him, squeezing him to you like you could meld with him if only you tried hard enough.

You can’t tell if the racing heartbeat smacking against your skin is yours or Jean’s.

It takes you a while, but you get up, both of you.

“Gotta pee out any infection. Vaginal health is important.”

“Did you do that last time?”

“Probably forgot. I don’t exactly have sex on a regular basis.” He turns and grins at you. “It’s really up to you whether or not that changes.”

He kisses your bright red cheek and laughs.

“I liked your mom,” he murmurs a few minutes later, when you’re lying in bed together, forehead to forehead.

“She loved you. Gave her full approval.”

“Maybe you’ll have to meet Eren.”

“The one with the children?”

“Yeah. He’ll like you.”

“All right.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If I made you meet my mom, I can meet your friends.”

Jean smiles. “Also, that woman who called this morning? Leia? I wanna publish what I’ve got on the guy. I don’t want her money. But the guy’s gotta go.”

“I’ll get things moving tomorrow morning.”

You feel when the jolt goes through him; you see when the shock appears in his eyes.

“You don’t have to, you know. There’s no money coming in. I’m doing something pro bono, for the first time in my life.”

“I know. But you can’t just publish that and expect anything to happen without preparation. I’ll do the prep pro bono.”

He kisses you. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Only a day away.”

“Are you quoting Annie?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

“I never thought about it that way.”

Jean smiles.

You reach out to touch the corner of that smile, to trace his lips, to feel the line of his jawbone.

When he falls asleep, you’re brushing through his hair. He looks peaceful. Even his hair is quiet in the dark.

The blankets are warm, the pillows are soft, Jean is in your arms.

You blink.

When you open your eyes, the moon is shining through the curtains. Jean is lying on his back, one hand thrown across your stomach.

You blink again.

The world is dark this time. The sun must be about to rise; the air has that anticipatory quality, when the whole world is waiting for the sky to turn grey. Jean’s head is on your shoulder.

You blink again.

The sun is up.

Jean is kissing your nose.

“Morning, Marco,” he whispers.

You cup his cheek, blinking at him. “Morning, love.”

His eyes pop open.

“I –”

He kisses your lips. “I like that.”

You push his hair back. “Ready for the day, love?”

“If you keep calling me _love_ , I’ll be ready for the year.”

“As long as you’re ready for the most charitable morning either of us has ever spent, love.”

He snorts. “Only time I’ll ever go pro bono.” He nuzzles my neck. “Love you, Marco.”


End file.
